Victor
by sevensecrets7
Summary: In the 17th Hunger Games: Autumn Battles, the proud hunger games-scarred girl, forces herself to volunteer. Still hurt from her friend's death from her last games and Autumn's inability to stop it- Autumn feels forced to show the world that her friend was a victor. She takes the stage to the Capitol to honor her friend's memory. And Autumn Battles will not be scared.
1. Chapter 1

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The annoying screechy voice of the yearly escort, Dalla Trinket, fills the square. My heart beats in my chest, though I keep my expression calm and composed. After all, I'm Autumn Battles. I'm not afraid.

I march into the dingy square the Capitol has so pathetically attempted to turn festive. I'm amongst other girls my age, many of which I know, many of which I've seen though never spoke to. After all, I'm Autumn Battles. I choose who I talk to.

I keep my head held up high, though I can't control the raging beat inside my chest. Not that I'd ever admit that. Not today. Not on reaping day, the day when I've sworn I'd be strong. I don't want pity.

I walk through more lanes of people, and heads turned to look at me. Of course, Autumn Battles is a legend. People look up to her, fear her, respect her. Respect me. People have all heard of Autumn Battles, the pain of her past, the promise of her future. The faces hold promise, fear, and something terrifyingly like hope.

Our line of girls has finally settled into the sea of children, the rows and rows of hallow cheeks and dark eyes with frail, hungry bodies. I can feel the expectant glances thrown my way, the heat of staring eyes warming up the back of my neck. My palms are warm and beginning to sweat, and I have to cross them over my arms to stop from fidgeting with my hair. Autumn Battles does not fidget.

I've always found it sad, when we watch as other districts have the escort introduce their victor or victors, and watching them step forwards to mentor the next tributes. In district twelve, we have no mentor, nor any victors. In district twelve, the only thing pushing me forwards is the starving eyes of the hungry. So instead of introducing the district's "pride", we have the mayor immediately come up and give the usual speech.

"I heard you're going to volunteer," a voice whispers from beside me. It's a girl, and her voice is quivering badly. When I turn my head sharply to face her, she cowers backwards and stares at the floor. My scathing silver eyes looks her over. She's almost a head shorter than me, with dark hair that barely reaches her shoulders. Her bony shoulders are hunched, and she seems terrified. But something else glimmered in her voice when she asked me her question. I recognize it now, more clearly. Hope.

I decide to ignore her, giving her one hard glare before turning my head back towards the front, chin tilted up. But her voice, as young and frail as it was, turns other heads up towards me. No one dares ask anything again, but I can almost hear their tiny voices begging me to save them.

The mayor speaks of the honor of participation, the goodness we serve, and the fight for the better. I've trained myself through school classes to learn to tune out voices, just so I can ignore this speech every year. It's terrible- the way he's forced to make the games sound so honorable- especially when his own son is somewhere in the crowd today, fingers crossed like the rest of us.

It's easier today, with the sound of my heartbeat so loud. As part of the oldest group of children, we're right at the front of the stage. I focus my eyes on the small banner with the capitol seal on it, and imagine what it would be like watching it float in the sky as the images of the fallen I may have caused flash overhead. It brings fear, but I'm able to imagine how she felt when she looked in the sky for her fallen victims.

Isn't that the reason I'm making this decision? Forher? I can't stop. I can't forget. I can't let her death leave in vain.

Dalla's bounced up to the stage again, though I can't hear her voice. I still haven't fully tuned in, and my head is still spinning with the memories of her_. _When she pulls a name out of the reaping bowl, my head has cleared just as the name is pronounced and the faint shriek of a mother and wail of a child fills the square. I can't let herdie in vain. I can't let them know they beat her. I must avenge her. I must show them who the real victors are. My lips part, and when they speak- for a second I swear I sound just like her.

"I volunteer as tribute."


	2. Chapter 2

I can hear the whispers starting, becoming louder and louder before the entire crowd is at an uproar.

No one in District Twelve has volunteered before. No one believed anyone ever would.

But suddenly, the racing in my heart ends, my head clearing. Any other thoughts I had previously are useless now, when the words have already been spoken. I tilt my chin higher, since even the talkative Dalla has fallen silent. My cold eyes skim over the stage, landing on the mayor's stiff form. I tilt my head to one side, challenging him to turn me down. His eyes flicker to the girl whose name was called, and she takes the moment of delay to scurry underneath the peacekeepers' arms and run. No one stops her.

Once the girl disappears, order slowly returns to the square. Dalla clears her throat for attention, but everyone's looking at me. I stare back with indifference. Before waiting for Dalla to confirm or reply, I step away from my place in line and begin walking. I walk with confidence, my feet angled straight, legs firm, chin up, eyes on the horizon. I've learned to walk with duty, so no one questions you. Especially when you're not sure where to go.

They can't turn me down now. The humiliation of be turned down at a reaping- imagine that! I will not be humiliated. So I keep walking, my gaze firmly glaring at the stage, not flickering to watch the other expressions. I am proud, perhaps too proud. But I'm on national television now. The world is watching my every movement.

I remember watching her walk up a year ago, when my eyes displayed the most emotion I had managed to produce in years. I remember her squeezing my hand, before swiftly walking forwards to face her next adventure. That's what everything was for her; an adventure. The first time she called the games an adventure, I was angry. Wouldn't that be just like the Capitol, thinking the games were an adventure, an exploration, a story worth remembering?

_"There is a very fine difference between a game and an adventure. A game can be an adventure, but an adventure can never be a game. In an adventure, there are no rules."_

No rules. I've always remembered that, for anything I've looked at that doesn't suit me. Make everything an adventure, just like her. No rules.

I step on to the stage, as Dalla recovers.

"District Twelve's very first victor! Such bravery!" She swoons, taking my hand and pulling me towards the centre of the stage. I twist my hand out of her iron grip, and turn to face the audience. "I'd say the odds are in our favor this year! My dear, what's your name?"

I cock my head to one side in an arrogant gesture, surveying the crowds and cameras. I don't speak for a while, just surveying the area with cool bored eyes.

I hear more chattering, concerned whispers and not-so-discreet voices. A man mutters something about losing, and my gaze hardens even more.

Just when Dalla looks like she's about to ask again, my eyes flicker back to her.

"My name is Autumn Battles. And I will not lose."


	3. Chapter 3

I'm making history today. Not just because I volunteered, or promised to win. But because I won't say goodbye.

I'm sitting in that empty room, where any family or friends can come visit me to say goodbye. No one comes. Not even in District twelve, where so many families are cut short by starvation, was there ever a tribute without a friend to talk to before they were forced to leave.

The male tribute this year is some blundering idiot, with all elbows and knees and an odd look in his eyes. Lance; that's his name. He has a parade of siblings and cousins to see him. He's from somewhere in the nicer parts of twelve. I know immediately I will not form an alliance with him. I wonder if I'll kill him.

I sit in an old creaking fold-up chair, arms crossed. I keep my gaze defiant, in case there are cameras in the supposedly private room. I'll be called out once Lance is finished, and I'm sure everyone will have realized no one has come for me. That no one wishes to bid be farewell. No family, no friends, no token; no one who will miss me.

I take this time to calm down, to try and get rid of the faint fogginess in my head, and I wonder if this is what the feeling of being possessed in ghost stories is like. My movements are forced, my expression tightly controlled.

I remember when I went to see her. I was the only person who went. We always had each other- and only each other. We only had each other left. Now, I have no one. No one but a faint memory to serve as a purpose.

"_Remember, Autumn. A game can be an adventure. All you have to do is break the rules. There will not be rules in this adventure; and that's what I plan on having. I won't listen to them, not for a moment. There will be no rules. And we will win together, I promise. Don't you dare forget it."_

Don't forget it. I won't. I will never forget it. We _will _win together. We are the victors. And though I have no one but myself to tell me that, I will be enough. I'm okay.

She was standing straight and confident and tall when I came in, and I managed to stay with her all the way until the peacekeepers forced me out. I stare at the corner of the room, at the door. I remember when I walked down the hall, alone. I remember never being able to see her again. I suddenly realize, there's something she didn't say; and I'm almost certain of it. She never said goodbye.

Never, until now, have I realized that. Though she did have a visitor, she never gave her farewell. She promised me she would return, and she promised me we would be victors. She never said goodbye. I guess I won't either.

I lick my chapped lips, thirst suddenly filling me. I don't know how long I've been here; every second in the empty room is another taunt on how full Lance's room must be.

Sick of waiting, I rise to my feet. I jerk open the old door, making a satisfying creaking noise. The peacekeepers at the door turn around immediately. They're not the usual peacekeepers, no doubt from the Capitol. Behind their masks I can make out overly pale faces with saggy skin from one face-lift too many.

"Look, if I stay in that room for even a second longer, I'm going to die and shrivel up. Can't have that, can we? Don't want to be losing the tribute before the game. Imagine the trouble you'd be in," I say sweetly to the peacekeepers, patting one of the on the arm, and watching with satisfaction as he stiffens. Perks of being a tribute; I can give them hell and they can't do much about it.

The peacekeepers exchange a glance, silently trying to decide what to do.

"I'm not running anywhere," I point out, clearly annoyed. "I'm already half-dead from whatever fumes you've set off in there."

I smirk in satisfaction as annoyance flicker over their faces, and watch them resist the temptation to roll their eyes as my eyes remain cold and indifferent.

"Miss Battles, the train is ready," Dalla's screech has returned once again, as she bubbles through the peacekeepers and grabs my arm. I make another show of twisting it out of her iron grip, but I follow her even after she casts me a look of offence. We walk through the justice building, and once again I'm filled with the image of what she must've felt like, one year ago, when she walked down to the very same train.

When we exit the old building, we are engulfed once again with people and cameras, and I see Lance. His back is hunched, and he's turned away from me, wiping away tears. He was reaped, he was forced. That's another part of my pride I get to keep. I will never be forced.

We enter the train silently, partially because I don't want to talk, but also because I like watching Dalla awkwardly debate with herself whether or not to start a conversation. Her mouth occasionally opens, before she suddenly closes it again, like a fish of sorts. The train is luxurious, beautiful and open. This is what we get now. Bring us starvation and hardship for our lives, and then pamper us with luxury before we're sent off to our deaths.

Welcome to the Capitol. Where everything is just a game.


	4. Chapter 4

The more promises the compartment offers me, the more angry I am with the Capitol. Here, they have more than enough to keep, but so little to spare. I explore the compartment for a short while, before dropping onto the soft, comfortable bed. But every luxury they have here is yet but another taunt to what no one else has.

I try to ignore most of it, and I end up sleeping for a while. But when I finally drag myself up and get dressed, I'm barely in time for the prepping for the parade. Right. How could I forget.

It's funny, because in all the times I've pictured myself entering the games, I've never pictured getting all waxed, cleaned, and mulled over by a bunch of exotic creatures. My prep team is a weird combination of pink, green and yellow. These seem to be the most popular color in the Capitol now days, I'm guessing. Not that I care. They're faces are horrid with makeup and who knows what else, and I end up closing my eyes for most of the procedure, ignoring any friendly words, concerns, or small talk thrown my way. I just grit my teeth through the pain, and try to ignore the sensation of utter humiliation as my body is being mulled over by idiots.

Once they've given up on talking to me, they start chatting themselves. And it's bizarre, really, hearing about their lives. So bizarre that at some point, I begin to listen. They exchange tales about parties, costumes, clothing, gossip. I feel like I've entered a new world where the biggest problem is when you don't get invited to a themed party.

They finally leave, and I experience suddenly have such a weird impression of chattering of crickets disappearing into the day time.

My stylist enters, and I silently appreciate that it's a woman. Though I've never really cared about my body's privacy or of the thoughts of others, it would be less comfortable to have aman raking his eyes across my body as she's doing right now. But my sense of relief doesn't last long.

I immediately don't like her. She's small and petit, and she's pink and black everywhere. Not the nice pink of a rose either, but that kind of plastic pink you can only find in the Capitol. She wears it in a dress and some sort of vest, and her skirt flies out around her, as if there's constantly a wind blowing . Her eyes are pink too, and I don't even want to begin to imagine how she got them that way. Her face is heart-shaped and small, and lined with pink and black. Her lashes are overly long, reaching the very top of her eyebrows. I take one look at her, and look away, disgusted. I'm quick to judge, but I have my reasons.

After a couple silent minutes, she lays a robe down beside me for me to wear. I sit up and put it on, my eyes blank and emotionless.

"You don't like me," she says, in a high and clear voice. The way she says it isn't like the little girl drama you had back in school, when you liked a guy who wouldn't talk to you. It was more of a statement, like a teacher asking a question, determined to hear the right answer.

I don't answer, I stay silent, my eyes refusing to meet her sickly pink ones. I stare at the blank wall up ahead.

"I plan to change that," she decides, after another minute of silence. And I believe her. I believe that she will try, though not that she will succeed. But her large determined eyes are strict to proving me wrong. She turns around to retrieve something, her pink hair swaying behind her. This is the first time I've seen someone in the Capitol who is smart enough to be determined.


End file.
